Behind French Lines
by Gin Anokoku
Summary: After a bloody battle, England finds himself trapped under French control, fighting to keep his dignity and head under the power mad France's control. Dark Yaoi Lemon FRUK, don't like Don't read. RP with ALittleFangirl
1. Chapter 1

Francis snarled, rapier drawn as his men fought beside him, his own sword locked in a duel with a British soldier. A mistake on the Brit's part and his blade was deep in his chest, drawn out before he could fall. The Frenchman had moved on, hunting for the British man, his rapier connecting with another man's sword, searching for Arthur just to boast in his face about his imminent win. He would win this time. For sure. And he intended to get his due reward.

Arthur mounted on his dark brown thoroughbred, cut through the swarming french soldier, with hate. He watched as more men dropped, but he could not call a retreat. He would not gie the French the right to boast, to taunt him about it. He knew the bloody frog would hold it over his head if he did. Swinging his sword down and cutting through another soldiers throat, he cried out as his horse bucked, speared through the chest, throwing Arthur off, before collapsing, Arthur moving out of the way right before it landed on him

Francis saw Arthur bucked off the horse and nodded to his general, his sword cleanly cutting through the soldier's neck and lopping it off. A rush of adrenaline streaked through him-that spurt of blood when a head fell off and the neck was exposed exicted him greatly. He wanted to see Arthur's neck do the same when he had his final victory, and he and Gilbert and Antonio would celebrate and jeer at Roderich with glee. A roar of French voices at the general's order to advance forward only sped up the pumping blood in Francis' veins and he slashed another British soldier in the chest, leaving him gurgling blood and moving steadily towards where Arthur had fallen, stabbing and gutting his way there.

Pushing himself up and wiping some blood from his mouth, Arthur picked up the sword again, clashing words with a French soldier, quickly cutting his gut open and stabbing his sword through the Parsian mans throat with a slight twisted glee. While he was fighting strong he could feel and see his men dropping around him. Gritting his teeth, Arthur wondered when the generals were going to call a retreat or send in back up. They were losing this battle fast. In the back of his mind, Arthur wondered why and how the French were so strong. They were never much of a threat before, what had changed? Sweat dribbled down his forehead and he swore as he was the man he wanted to the least, Francis, moving sowrds him on his horse. Distraught, torn between helping defend his land and people amoung his soldiers and turning tail and fleeing, he choose to stay and fight, though not sure if he would be able to handle the Frenchman at that point, exaustion slowing him and his reflexes down.

Francis' sword slid into another British throat before his sword clashed with Arthur's and he swung at the British nation with a relish, blue eyes dark and mad with power. He had not felt strength like this, had not had this much power since his mother had raised him. A sword cut into his horse's knee and it fell with a distraught neigh, but Francis' focus was on Arthur alone, on ripping that neck out-or even better, humiliating him beyond repair. In front of his generals, too! With a dark cackle, he finally spoke, singularly in French, simply because he knew Arthur hated it, and it drove him wild to see Arthur angry and fueled his own distaste of the Briton. "Bonjour~ Ready to surrender, rosbif~?" He cooed, sword clashing again and again with Arthur's.

Growling, Arthur spit in the others face, blacking the swings of the power mad Frenchman "If you are going to ask my something /frog/ say it in English. I would rather my men's ears and my fallen allys not have their ears sullied by such a foul language!" he hissed and swing again, adding more power fueled purely by his hate for the blond, blood covered male before him. He had always disliked the Parsian, hated for he was snobby and felt he was better then everyone else. He hated how Scotland had always treated the frog better then his own blood, how all the attention was always on the normally weak bastard. He hated the perverted overly insavsive and outgoing personality. Everything about this man got to Arthur and it drove him mad.

Francis merely gave a cracked grin, wiping the spit from his cheek before launching out a kick at Arthur's stomach, sword just behind it to clash with Arthur's. "And if I don't want to speak your ridiculous language? I'd rasser not soil my mouss wiss speaking your barbaric tongue~" He snarled, lips curled into an enraged sneer. He already had plans for the Briton for after he had won the battle. He would torture him, show off his new prisoner to his allies as well as his own generals, and when he got bored, he would just slice his head off. With a dull, rusty knife. The mere thought made him cackle delightedly, leaning forward to grab Arthur's collar, sword pressed to his throat, speaking whispered English only to make sure that Arthur would understand him. "Eet is over, Britannique~ Surrender now and I'll wait until you're safely locked away to gloat, oui~?"

Growling Arthur struggled for only a minute longer before glaring up at him. He wasn't stupid he knew that he had lost, that he had made the wrong call in not turning tail when he could. His british pride always got in his way in making choices like that. Still snarling he hissed back through clentched teeth, "This battle is over, but you think my people will stand by and let you keep me you french scum?" he again spit in the others face, "Gloating just makes you seem more unappealing then you already are."

Francis wiped the British spit from his face, visage suddenly dropped into a snarling hatred for the Briton. "You are my prisoner, stupid rosbif, and by ze time I am done wiss you, you would wish you 'ad never existed." His rapier, sharp and glinting in the shimmering sun, slick with British blood from the other nation's soldier, pressed firmly into Arthur's neck, the edge breaking skin and drawing the tiniest line of blood from the Briton. "Let us see if anyone saves you zis time-oh, right, everyone in ze world 'ates you wiss a passion. You are lucky I am even letting you live." He snarled, standing and putting a heavy boot to Arthur's neck, raising his sword and yelling his triumph to his troops in his native tongue. The French soldiers responded in kind, raising their own blades in victory, high above the dead and dying and retreating bodies of the British soldiers. Francis' cocky smirk returned as he knelt over Arthur, foot pressed even more roughly into Arthur's throat, and he spat directly in his emerald eye. "You are passetic." He growled as two French soldiers began the process of binding and imprisoning the English nation

Arthur struggled and lashed out at the fenchman, shutting one eye as it was spit on. He coughed and stuggled for breath, tears, thugh hid well by the blood, prickled at his eyes as he lashed out at one of the humans trying to bind him, effectively breaking the others nose. He has lost, he knewthat, but he was not going down without a fight, his english pride wouldn't allow anything other then that

Despite the struggle the Englishman gave and the reel one of Francis' soldiers took as his nose cracked, Arthur was bound securely and hoisted to his feet roughly. The Frenchman grinned, eyes bluer than the sea sparkling with terrifying power hunger, and surveyed the imprisoned Briton with apparent relish. He then barked an order to the soldiers, who carried Arthur away while Francis looted the British soldiers

Arthur growled, spitting in the others face before being dragged away, to weak to truely put up a valient fight, but struggled none the less, tears streaming down his cheeks with the flowing blood, still hiding his depression and defeated feelings well enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis wiped the British spit from his face, visage suddenly dropped into a snarling hatred for the Briton. "You are my prisoner, stupid rosbif, and by ze time I am done wiss you, you would wish you 'ad never existed." His rapier, sharp and glinting in the shimmering sun, slick with British blood from the other nation's soldier, pressed firmly into Arthur's neck, the edge breaking skin and drawing the tiniest line of blood from the Briton. "Let us see if anyone saves you zis time-oh, right, everyone in ze world 'ates you wiss a passion. You are lucky I am even letting you live." He snarled, standing and putting a heavy boot to Arthur's neck, raising his sword and yelling his triumph to his troops in his native tongue. The French soldiers responded in kind, raising their own blades in victory, high above the dead and dying and retreating bodies of the British soldiers. Francis' cocky smirk returned as he knelt over Arthur, foot pressed even more roughly into Arthur's throat, and he spat directly in his emerald eye. "You are passetic." He growled as two French soldiers began the process of binding and imprisoning the English nation.

Arthur struggled and lashed out at the fenchman, shutting one eye as it was spit on. He coughed and stuggled for breath, tears, thugh hid well by the blood, prickled at his eyes as he lashed out at one of the humans trying to bind him, effectively breaking the others nose. He has lost, he knewthat, but he was not going down without a fight, his english pride wouldn't allow anything other then that.

The Frenchman sneered, glowing white teeth bared, and turned away. "Why would we want to see you naked when your body is ze ugliest zing I 'ave ever seen?" He taunted, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, inhaling smoke before turning back towards the Briton. "You'll be sentenced soon. I already 'ave an idea of 'ow you will be punished for your crimes against ze French Empire."

"My CRIMES? I have done no crime but defend my own land you bloody frog!" he growled, glaring up at the bastard, "You and your people sicken me, more so if this is how you run your god foresaken nation! You are worse then the Russians!" he growled lowly, moving further back nto the cell, still covering himself best he could.

Francis merely chuckles, taking another long drag of his cigarette and blowing it into the cell. "Ah, oui, ze Russians. Merci pour ze compliment, mon ami, if I am worse zan ze Russians, I will be able to beat 'im easily, non?" His laugh grew louder before he coughed, cigarette held away from him as he hacked his lungs out. Once his coughing fit was over, he stood, blowing a kiss at Arthur. "Au revoir, petit Britannique~"

"No you wouldn't be able to beat then frog!" He snarled and watched him coughing taking some pleasure in the others pain and woe. He snorted in disgust as the other blew a kiss at him before moving toways the sheetless bed and curled up on it in silence, waiting until he finds out what his punishment for defending his land people and nation would be.


End file.
